‘Alors, you make a game with me, I see that. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. I am dreadfully sad. You climb by disappointing men. For some days we shall be very idle there among the trees and rocks. “I regret that you should ever have proposed it,” he went on. What ho! lights! lights!" And, shouting as he went, he flung himself down stairs. He sat up in his chair as though the question had stung him. “No, don’t interrupt me. What of that?" "Vot 'o that!" echoed Sharples, peevishly: "Everythin'. I’m right again now. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her.
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